


The House Of M

by inamac



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: Corsetry, F/M, HP: EWE, Mind-Fuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-19
Updated: 2012-03-19
Packaged: 2017-11-02 05:15:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/365365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inamac/pseuds/inamac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a famous bounty hunter pays a visit to an exclusive corsetiere they both discover more than they expect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Measuring

The shop at the end of a discrete cul de sac in the wizarding area of The Lanes might have been easily missed by those who knew it only by reputation. The small, lead-lighted bay window was lined with black velvet and displayed nothing but a photograph in a gilded frame on an ebony easel . One would have to press one's face almost to the glass to see the witch in the elegant Edwardian dress turning slowly before the camera, her gaze distant. There was no shop sign; instead a brass plate beside the door bore a simple inscription.

The House Of M.

It could have been anything. A photographer's studio. A jewellers. A brothel.

The watcher resisted the urge to press her back against the wall and watch from the shadows. That was the natural reaction of a bounty hunter, and to do so now would only alert her quarry – exactly the reaction she was trying to avert. It had taken her months of covert observation and investigation to reach this point, and she was not going to blow it now by making an amateur's mistake. Instead, she straightened her jacket, threw back her shoulders (with a twinge of pain that was a legacy of her last mission – the bastard had been lucky to get off that hex, and she had been unlucky to catch the back-blast) , and strode confidently up to the doorway.

Although it was the middle of the afternoon and an hour to the normal closing time, the door was shut. She pressed the bell beneath the brass plate and waited. After a few moments a wizened face appeared behind the dimpled glass, a bolt was drawn back and the door opened sufficiently for the owner of the face, a young house elf, to be heard through the gap.

"By appointment only. Does Madam have an appointment?"

She reached into her purse and passed the elf a card, on which was printed, in raised, Latinate serif lettering, the 'House of M' inscription together with a handwritten date and a time, three thirty. It sniffed and drew back.

"Madam is late."

She checked her watch. "Three minutes," she said. The elf ignored her, pulled the door completely open and gestured to her to enter the shop.

"Master does not like to be kept waiting. Come in. The dressing room is the second door on the right. When you have disrobed ring the bell and an assistant will come. I will tell Master you are here."

She had no time to acknowledge this speech, for at the last word the creature apparated abruptly. Biting her lip she followed the instructions and found herself not in the tiny cubicle that she had come to associate with the term 'dressing room' on the Muggle world, but in a well-lit, if windowless room some fifteen feet square. It was decorated in high Rococo style, the light coming from an ornate chandelier hanging from an exuberantly decorated plaster ceiling rose. There was a clothes-rack to one side, a pair of pale green upholstered boudoir chairs beside a small fireplace, a low table bearing an ashtray and a couple of society magazines, and a double-sided peer-glass supported by gilt putti with the most dreadfully smug expressions. The only thing which indicated that this was not the dressing room in a private house was the dressmaker's dummy on a stand by the door.

As she disrobed she considered her mission. The presence of the elf confirmed her suspicions about Mr - or rather, M'sieur – M. There were very few house elves in private service, fewer since the War had taken its toll of the old, rich pureblood families to which such elves were bound. If M'sieur M was a member of such a family it was no wonder he hid behind the anonymity of a single letter. None of the old families would have approved of any of their members gaining a reputation as a tradesman, even if he was the most exclusive and sought-out corsetiere in Europe.

Unless the family concerned had a far greater embarrassment to conceal. Like the membership of the Death Eaters.

Stripped finally to her demure and serviceable panties and bra she picked up the bell the elf had indicated and rang it sharply. The movement sent another twinge through her back and reminded her that this visit had two purposes. If M'sieur M did turn out to be a wanted man she would wait until he had completed their business transaction before bringing him to justice.

The door opened in response to her ring and she was relieved that it was not the house elf who had answered the bell. Neither was it the man she had come to see. A middle-aged woman wearing wizard-style robes bustled into the room. The assistant was carrying a notepad and a quill and, as she entered, the tape-measure hung around her neck undulated like an inquisitive snake (causing a frisson of fear – anyone who had been through the last stages of the late War was apt to be nervous of snakes), sailed across the room and curled itself neatly around her new client's waist.

"Twenty six and three quarter inches," the assistant said, as her quill scribbled busily. "That's very good. I assume that you'll not be wanting more than two or three inches reduction? Your appointment said that this is for medical purposes?"

"Er, yes. I was advised that I needed some back support..." The tape was coiling around her breasts now, she was reminded of nothing so much as being measured for her first wand by Ollivander.

"Very good. M'sieur M loves a challenge. But you do understand that his designs are for enhancement as well as support? If you merely require a back brace I can recommend a good medi-wizard."

"No!" she said, panicking a little at the suggestion that her consultation might end here with no sign of the elusive corsetiere. She took a calming breath, and the quill obediently recorded the discrepancy between empty and full lungs. "I did explain when I made my appointment. I have a... demanding physical job. I have been advised that a corset may be helpful. And I do want the best."

The assistant bit her lip. "Your job," she said, voice dripping with contempt. People with 'jobs' did not frequent the House of M. "I see. You are not our usual type of client."

Yes, she thought. I've seen your 'usual clients'. Narcissa Malfoy, haughty and elegant in a creation of green snakeskin with external boning channels in silver kidskin and a fringing of crystal beads at one of the post war Ministry functions. Or Anastasia Greengrass and her daughters in matching creations of antiqued gold and green silk designed to look like a drift of Autumn leaves at the Samhain ball. M'sieur M was renowned for enhancing his clients natural attributes, for displaying dramatic cleavage and reducing waists, both by physical restraint and trompe l'oeil. She smiled sweetly. "Look on me as a challenge," she said. "I assure you I can afford M'sieur M's prices." _Exorbitant though they be._

Though the thought was unvoiced the assistant clearly caught the implied criticism of her attitude. She lifted her nose a little in the air and drew a final line under her notes with the quill. The tape measure, its task completed, settled itself back around her neck. "Wait here," she said. She turned on her heel and left with no further word, the door closing behind her.

It was no more than the bounty hunter had expected. In fact the assistant's attitude confirmed what she had surmised about her employer. Secretive and arrogant. Like master like servant. Well, she refused to be intimidated. She settled herself into one of the chairs, picked up the topmost magazine from the table, and prepared for a long wait.

She was half way through an article in the second journal about the uses of exotic fruits in potion-making when a door which she had not previously noticed opened to admit the man she had come to see. She glanced up from the magazine, intending to be casual and unimpressed, but the identity of M'sieur M, although she had suspected it from her research, nevertheless startled an exclamation from her.

"Malfoy! Draco Malfoy!"

"I do hope," he drawled, insufferable as he had ever been when they were schoolmates, "that you have not wasted my time and that of my assistant merely to ascertain my identity?"

"What?" All professionalism deserted her. 

His smile was predatory. "Speechless? You do remind me of your brother, Madame Weasley."

She drew herself up, ignoring the fact that she was wearing nothing but her bra and panties, and matched his arrogance. "It's Miss Prewett. I use my professional name in public."

"Of course. Which profession? That of quidditch promoter or bounty hunter?"

"I... I don't know what you mean."

"Please," he gestured with his wand and the file boxes that had followed him through the door settled themselves down on the table, on top of her discarded magazine. Satisfied that they were secure he waved her back down into the chair. "If I am to create a corset for you then I need to know everything there is to know about you. We will start with that scar across your ribs. A hex, I assume? The garment will have to be cut to accommodate that. And to free your wand-arm for fighting. Alternatively, if you are to ride a broomstick frequently, you will require it cut high over the thigh. So which is it?"

She rolled her lower lip between her teeth, a habit that her mother had never been able to break when she was thinking. "It isn't only the scar," she said. "I have some back pain, I was advised that a corset might give me some support."

"If I make you a corset," he said, "It will do a great deal more than 'give you some support'. It will mould you, shape you, enhance you. It will give you poise, and elegance and..."

"And a large hole in my Gringotts vault," she broke in.

He nodded. "That too. The House of M does not come cheap."

"Malfoys never did," she said bitterly, remembering the contempt in which his rich father had held her impoverished one. She was surprised at his response. He reached out a hand and caught her chin, turning her face towards him.

"I thought that we were all supposed to have left our schoolday rivalries behind us," he said. "By order of the Ministry. Please, if we cannot be friends let us at least have an amicable professional relationship. Now, I have some designs and fabrics here to discuss. Shall we begin?"

She had expected that he would propose something plain and practical, to be hidden beneath whatever robes she wore, and never to be spoken of as a creation of the famous House of M. Indeed, some of the fabrics he took from the box were not only plain, but not even part of the normal repertoire of a fashion designer; rough hessian, hemp cord, old offcuts of what appeared to be saddle leather, scraps of tanned vellum and open-weave undyed linen more suited to a kitchen or stableyard than a wardrobe.

"Is this a joke?" she asked.

He looked up from the sketch pad on which he was scribbling. "It is Art," he said, giving the word the full force of its capital letter. "When I make a corset it speaks to me. It tells the story of the wearer."

"And I'm a load of old scrap?"

"You said you were a bounty hunter," he said. "You search among the outcasts of society for your livelihood. You take the worst of humanity and you lock it away." He looked up into her eyes. "Do you let it touch you? The filth? Or do you hold yourself aloof? Whichever it is, I am going to encase you in it. Lock you around as you have locked others." He reached into one of the boxes and took out a handful of tiny brass locks, picking one out as a model while his pencil sketched a row of hasps down the busk of the design he was working on. 

Ginny leaned forward, fascinated as she watched the design take shape. Under his pen the jumble of materials flowed together into a single garment, leather and brass and damask and linen. The double sets of steel bones that formed the much needed back support were half-exposed in channels of rough sacking. His quill scrawled the legal Latin of the Wizard's Arrest statute, that gave bounty hunters their licence to work, on the vellum and incorporated it into the front panels of the design. He added a decoration of old knuts to represent the traditional payment (though she had never taken less than a hundred galleons on delivery).

When he had done, he ripped off the page and handed it to her.

"That is what I will make for you. Come back in two days for the first fitting."

And he was gone, on his feet and through the door by the fireplace so quickly that he might have _apparated_.

She looked down at the paper in her hands. It was not at all what she had expected. But then, neither was the man who had drawn it. This was a side of Draco Malfoy that she had never seen before. Thoughtfully she folded the paper, tucked it into her bag, resumed her robes, and left.


	2. Fitting

Two days later she stepped through the door of The House of M precisely on time. The elf was a good deal less peremptory this time, and indicated that when she had stripped to nothing but her knickers in the dressing room she should put on the light gown she would find there and continue through the door by the fireplace into what it referred to as the 'fitting room'.

The door was ajar, and, when she had obeyed these orders, she pushed it open with some trepidation.

The room revealed to her gaze was clearly the workroom, with a big cutting table at the far end, half a dozen elves and girls (squibs, she assumed, since none had a wand and she could not imagine Draco employing muggles) working at sewing and cutting and beading and embroidering. Rolls of fabric were racked on the walls, or draped over hooks and hangers and dress-forms.

"Oh good." Draco looked up from the task of pinning together two lengths of ribbon. He was the only one using a wand, and the line of pins guided by his spell flicked in and out of the fabric with a precision that a muggle, seeing the result, would have attributed to a machine. "Wait there, I've got your _toiles_ somewhere..."

He walked off to the back of the room, where one of a row of storage cabinets opened its drawers at his spelled command.

Ginny took the opportunity of his distraction to look around. This place was very different from the calm of the dressing room and the order of the reception office. For one thing there was a lot of light spilling into the room from big picture-windows high on the walls. She expected to see the real version of the sketch he had made, but the models on the dress forms were very ordinary silk and satin creations, nothing like the fantasy in brass and leather and lace he had created. 

He returned bearing two tissue-wrapped bundles from which hung labels with her name scrawled on them. "Come back into the dressing room and try these on," he said. "I couldn't decide whether to use a spoon busk or not. And I wasn't sure what bustline to cut so I did one of each."

Terrified at what this additional work might have added to the cost of her garment she followed him through to the familiar calm of the dressing room.

He had unrolled the corsets from their wrapping, and she looked down at them in shock. Here was nothing of the extravagance his pen had created. Both were absolutely plain unbleached fabric with ragged seams and uncut bones poking out at the top and bottom of the garments.

Shock loosened her tongue. "I'm not going to pay for these!" she exclaimed.

He shrugged. "You won't get what you want without them," he said. "You've asked for very specific support. You didn't think that I'd start cutting expensive materials without checking the fit first, did you?" He didn't wait for her answer but held up the first of the tattered objects and gestured to her to drop her robe and turn round.

She did so automatically, realising that he must mean that these were test models, and hoping that her embarrassed blush would be put down to concern at her nakedness rather than her exposed ignorance.

He ignored it, or perhaps did not notice, focussed as he was on the task at hand. "Have you ever worn a corset before?" he asked.

She shook her head, and waited for his cutting remark. Instead he merely nodded. "Put your arms out to each side," he said, and, when she obeyed, he wrapped the opened corset around her torso. "Good. At least your waist is in the right place," he said, leaving her to wonder whether she had been subtly insulted or complimented. "Now, bring your hands down and hold this in place while I fix the busk."

She did as he ordered, and he moved round to face her, taking the top of the two halves of the corset between his fingers. The back of his hands brushed her breasts and she found herself taking a sharp breath, and again was unsure whether it was nerves or outrage.

He took advantage of her indrawn breath to hook up the top fastenings of the busk, which were ordinary hooks and posts and not the brass hasps and padlocks that they had discussed for this design. "Keep breathing in," he ordered, placing the back of his right hand flat against her abdomen to hold the bottom clasp in place with his right thumb while he pushed his left thumb under the busk with two fingers over the top of it. She would not have breathed then had she been hexed. The touch, intimate but indifferent, seemed to burn through the bone and fabric. With one firm movement he brought the clasp section forward and fastened the third stud from the bottom of the row. The remainder of the busk fastening fell into position and he withdrew his fingers to run them down the studs and ensure that they were secure and straight.

"Good," he proclaimed. "The length is right. Now let's do the lacing."

He moved around her again to take up the laces, and began to tension them slowly. Despite the fact that this was only a trial version she felt the garment settle around her, supporting exactly where she needed it. She arched a little against the pressure, and he knotted off the laces well before she could feel any discomfort.

He returned to face her, and there was no doubt now about the blush that coloured throat and the exposed upper curves of her breasts. A blush that was banished into two pale marks under the pressure of his thumbs as he cupped his hands to adjust the topline of the corset and settle the overflow of her breasts into the confines of the fabric.

"How does that feel?" he asked.

She bit her lip against the natural retort of 'intrusive', reminding herself that this was his job. Though trust Draco Malfoy to find a job that involved fondling naked women. If she did not protest it was only because, well, it _did_ feel good.

"Okay," she said.

He frowned. "Madame Ginevra," he said, "or whatever you call yourself. I am a master craftsman. I do not make anything that is 'okay'. Hex me."

The demand was such a non sequiteur that she gaped at him. He looked exasperated. "Close your mouth and pretend to cast a hex. _Without_ using your wand. You do know some hexes? I seem to remember that you were quite good at them at school."

"It's how I make my living," she said.

"Precisely. And if you are going to wear one of my corsets I need to know that you can do so while 'making your living'."

"Oh. I see." She curled her fingers around an imaginary wand and threw herself forward in the extended lunge that was a characteristic of casting a long distance body-bind. She was surprised when the usual twinge of pain across her shoulders failed to affect her aim. Testing the corset to the limit she whirled and mimicked the firing of an under-arm _Petrificus_ followed by the long sweeping motion of a general shield charm. When she straightened up again Draco was leaning against the wall with a smug expression on his pointed features. He gave her a slow handclap.

"Good," he commented. "Obviously the spoon-busk will be best to take that sort of strain, but we had better see whether the higher sweetheart neckline provides a bit more modesty, seeing how much you obviously enjoy your work."

She looked down at her front to see that the movement had pulled her breasts free of the straight top of the corset. Her nipples stood red and proud and hard. And yes, she did find the heat of battle arousing, but wondered whether it was only that which had affected her now. There was something undeniably erotic about the way the corset hugged her body – and the way in which the corsetiere examined his handiwork.

She reached to unhook the busk, and his hands were there at once to knock hers away. "Never touch a busk unless the laces are loose," he said as if it was a mantra. He suited his actions to the words and released the knot in the small of her back to allow himself to ease the laces loose enough for her to unhook the busk.

They went through the same procedure with the second corset, although this time her movements were a lot more energetic. When she had done he frowned over the fit and used his wand to make adjustments, and a tailor's chalk to mark the changes that needed to be made, sketching in channels for additional support around her bust and under her arms. When he finally released her the two toiles looked very nearly as ragged and distressed in reality as he proposed the finished corset should look by design.

She resumed her robes as he sorted out his notes. He was so absorbed that she had to rattle the doorknob to bring his attention to the fact that she was leaving.

"When do you need to see me again?" she asked.

He started, and she could not be sure whether it was surprise that she was still here, or consideration of the question.

"I meant, for another fitting," she clarified.

"Oh. It should be ready in a week. Call again next Friday. Around half-five."

She nodded and left. It was only when she was half way along the sea front that she realised that she had forgotten to resume her bra. The remembered touch of his fingers on her nipples still burned. And it was not until she had her wand in her hand to unlock her front door that she realised that half-past-five was closing time at The House of M.

She smiled as she shut the door behind her.


	3. Testing

The sun was just touching the western horizon when she entered the alley on Friday afternoon. There was no sign of the elf and she pushed the door open and walked into a deserted reception area. She hesitated for a moment, wondering whether she had made a mistake about the time, or the date. She walked down the corridor, listening for the sounds of the staff in the workroom, but the sewing machines were silent, the scissors stilled.

There was a sound though, faint music coming, she realised as she reached it, from the fitting room.

The door to the room was ajar. Feeling as wary as the first time she had visited this shop she rested her hand on her wand, ready to draw it in an instant, swung it open and stepped through.

The music came from a gramophone on the far side of the room. Otherwise everything was much as she had seen it on her first visit, except that the tailor's dummy on its stand had been moved from its position by the door to the centre of the room, and it was no longer naked. There, displayed like the work of art it was, stood her new corset.

She stood still scarcely believing that this thing of brass and bronze, leather and lace, silk and sacking, could possibly be designed to be worn, let alone by her. She walked carefully around it, not daring to touch.

There was a paper parcel-label hanging from the knot of the laces at the back. She reached out to turn it and read, in Malfoy's characteristic script, the name of his latest creation.

_The Bounty Hunter._

She smiled. The corset itself spoke eloquently of its wearer's profession. Now that she had given herself permission to touch she ran her fingers gently down the line of tiny padlocks that held the busk closed.

"It would look better on you."

His voice made her jump. He had been lounging in one of the chairs by the fire, its back turned to the door, and near-invisible on the fire-lit gloom. With a casual gesture he used his wand to light the overhead chandelier. The light gleamed off her red hair and the brass fittings of the corset, emphasising his words.

"I... er..." Feeling embarrassed was ridiculous when he had already seen her all-but-naked twice before, and knew, more intimately than a lover, every curve and line of her body. Nevertheless the tension in the room was palpable. Rather than doing the gentlemanly thing and turning his back while she disrobed, he rose and crossed the room, moving behind her to lift her cloak from her shoulders with all the deference of a waiter at a restaurant.

She had dressed carefully in anticipation of this moment, if not precisely these circumstances, and by the time he had helped her to strip to the expensive cream lace of bra, panties and suspender belt the embarrassment had gone. She preened under his appreciative regard as she put one foot up on the chair to unfasten and roll down the copper-sheened stockings she had chosen to match the colours of the corset. As she removed the last of her clothing he moved over to the dummy and began to loosen the laces. Then he used his wand to unclasp the line of padlocks, setting them hovering at his shoulder while he flipped open the brass hasps and removed the garment from its stand. When she finally stood, naked, he was behind her again, and, as before, held out the two halves of the corset to wrap them around her body.

It was like being hugged. Warm and hard, much more firmly than the mock-up versions had felt.

Fastening the busk was a lot more complicated than before. His hands turned and compressed her, fitting her body to the corset as much as he was fitting the corset to her. When he was satisfied another wave of his wand clipped each padlock through its ring, locking her in as securely as she had ever imprisoned her quarry.

She breathed shallowly, savouring the feel of the support, the hard steel bracing her back, the spiral steels curving at waist and bust to give her the shape that was the signature of the House of M.

And then he moved round and started to take up the slack in the laces. And everything changed.

She told herself, as she felt the steel close around her body, that he was an expert at this. He would not tighten the corset too much this first time, wishing to stress neither his handiwork nor his client, but as he pulled the laces tighter her confidence deserted her along with her breath. She was about to protest when he tied the laces off and turned her to face him. His expression was critical.

"That's about a two inch reduction," he said. "Since you only need it for support that should be sufficient for now. How does it feel?"

"Tight."

He nodded. "Good. We should give it a thorough test. " His hands spanned her waist and pulled her towards him. The movement made her tilt her head back, and push her bust forward. He looked critically down at the curves of her breasts, emphasised by a fringe of lace sewn with real knuts. "The higher topline seems to work. Let's make sure these will stay in their place." He bent his head to touch his lips to the exposed part of her right breast. She jumped, but did not pull away. He repeated the action with the left breast, adding the pressure of his hand over her heart, pressing the steel there into her flesh. This time she leaned into the touch, and turned her face up to his with an enquiring look.

"You're very familiar with your testing methods, M'sieur Malfoy. Does it pass?"

He smiled. "We've barely started yet. It's for you to say whether it does the job you want of it. Put your arms around me."

She did as he commanded, burying her fingers in the long hair that brushed over the collar of his robe at the nape of his neck. He pulled her closer and she realised that he was wearing nothing beneath the severely tailored robe, no jacket, and no shirt. She momentarily forgot the constriction of the corset as she tightened the embrace – and brought her knee up between his in an exploratory movement.

He was not aroused, but he did take a breath and pause in his exploration of the back panels of the corset. "Plenty of room to move your hips then. And no sign of back pain?"

"Not pain. No." She was feeling quite another sensation entirely.

"Good. We know that you can cast spells wearing the toile, I think you should try a little more energetic movement." His smile was feral. "I'm sure that the work of a bounty hunter has other demands than spellwork. Do you dance?"

He knew that she did. He had been at the Hogwarts Reconstruction Charity Ball five years ago when she had made her most notorious arrest. In any case he did not wait for reply, merely shifting his hands on her to the classic ballroom hold and tipping her back as he swept her around the room. He must have done some silent magic, for the soft background music, of which she had barely been aware, now swelled to provide accompaniment to their dance.

She was aware of the pressure of the knot of laces under his encircling hand, of the beat of her heart and the constriction of the leather, and the way, when he bent her back in the throes of what had mutated from a Viennese waltz to a sultry tango, that the corset held her body rigid, almost in defiance of gravity.

The music ended, and she found herself in his close embrace, her head against his chest and his heart beating as hard as hers from the exertion of the dance.

"Well," he asked at last, "do you feel any pain?"

"Not... not from the corset," she said.

Again his hands played over the fabric, following a curve of corded damask that she had thought was mere decoration, but now realised mirrored the long scar of the hex she had received years ago in the battle with her first capture.

"And what about this?" His voice held a note of concern, and she could not be sure whether it was for his handiwork on the corset or for the injury she had received. She chose to answer the latter.

"It's an old scar," she said. "I treat it as a lesson not to tackle a wizard who's an expert duellist."

He smiled bitterly as old memories surfaced. "Get your blow in first."

She grinned back, relaxed and now feeling mischievous. "Did you want me to test for that?" Without waiting for an answer she slid down his body, hands parting his robe to rest on his naked hips. She had been aware of his growing arousal during the dance, and now he was half-erect; a state that changed as she ran her tongue over her lips before leaning in to engulf the rapidly blushing head in her mouth.

" _Merlin's tits!_

The exclamation was torn from him, and she smiled around her mouthful before setting herself to the task of completing his arousal. He shifted, groping for support, and finally settled for her shoulders. The fringe of knuts around the top of the corset jingled rhythmically as she worked.

"I... enough!" His fingers tightened, warning her that she must either stop, swallow, or ruin the corset. She stopped, and drew back, aware now of her own arousal, and wondering what further test he wished to subject her – and the corset – to.

She was answered as he knelt to join her on the threadbare carpet.

"I suppose," he said softly, gazing directly into her eyes, "that a bounty hunter must sometimes pursue her target into a bed?"

She nodded. She had done that. Once. She did not anticipate doing it again, still less while wearing this work of art, but he had said that his work must be tested. "Do you have a bed?" she asked.

For answer he caught her around the waist and performed a very practiced apparation. The bed on which she found herself bounced once under her knees on their arrival, and then he had pushed her back onto the pillows. The heel of his hand pressed into the rounded base of the busk, over the curve of her mound, and his fingers, pin-calloused and practiced, massaged at her clit.

She was wetter than ever now. Grateful for the support to her back that allowed her to push up to increase the delightful pressure. His fingers slipped inside her, opening her and driving her to orgasm. The breathless moment owed nothing to the constriction of her body and everything to his ministrations.

"More!" she gasped.

He leaned over her, his thigh between hers, and then swore and drew back.

"Damn padlocks!" he said, reaching for his wand. "Let me..."

She stopped him with his own words. "Never touch a busk unless the laces are loose," she said. "And they don't get loosed until I say so."

So saying she pushed him back onto the bed and straddled him, wriggling to accommodate his now-engorged cock between the confines of steel and leather. He had designed the corset to allow her to ride a broomstick – there was no problem at all in riding her victim.

oOo

The morning sunlight slipped through the crack in the curtains and cast a strip of light across the bed, revealing dishevelled sheets, naked occupants, and the tangle of laces and metal that was the discarded corset hanging off the end of the footboard.

Ginny opened an eye, took in the spill of white-blond hair over her arm, and smiled. The evening had been worth waiting for. She had had her doubts about returning to the role of bounty hunter. Especially since the duel with Draco Malfoy that had given her the scar on her side, before her final hex had _stupefied_ him and delivered him to the justice of the Wizengamot and a five year jail term.

She still marvelled that, after all their history, they had finally ended up together. The rest of the wizarding world wondered too, but they had not been privy to her long visits to the prison, to their shared confidences about being the victims of Lord Voldemort's vengence, to the pressures of being, in her case, the only girl of a pureblood family and, in his, the only heir, with all the duties and expectations that had been heaped on them by their parents. Marriage, in the end, had been the logical progression of their relationship.

And now he regarded her as his muse.

She smiled, and kissed him awake. After he had reciprocated he stretched and rose, cursing when his naked foot landed on one of the tiny padlocks scattered on the bedroom carpet.

"Well?" she asked, when he had finished hopping and cursing.

"I think," he said, "that the _Bounty Hunter_ model will be the gem of the Spring collection for the House of M. Well done."

She grinned, and joined him gathering up the corset and its fastenings and placing them in the box on her dressing table. "I had an idea," she said, "for the next design."

"Oh?" His expression was hopeful. "Something else that will need careful testing?"

"I think so." She was teasing now, and crossed back to embrace him, turning her face up for his kiss. "I thought, perhaps, a classic design. The Dominatrix."

His eyes gleamed. He always encouraged her in their role-playing, and not only because it was good for his business. "Yes," he agreed. "Shall I book an appointment at the House of M for Madame Gin?"

The End.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the LJ Wizard_Love challenge 2012. My thanks to geewhizz for the prompt, and my apologies for twisting it, to Lil Shepherd for beta (and whose comic book obsession gave me the title) and to the folks at LJ's corsetmakers com whose archive I have plundered shamelessly.


End file.
